Let's say you have money. Vacation-house money. Maybe even his-and-hers-catamarans money. One day you scope out the driveways of your development and notice: No one has a car anymore. They're all driving SUVs now. How do you compete with the jacked-up Joneses?
You buy an F.U. SUV. More exotic. More luxurious. More middle finger than ever before.
The category was born, wearing spinners, with Cadillac's Escalade; grew aristocratic with modern Range Rovers; went supersonic thanks to Porsche's Cayenne. This year Maserati, Jaguar, and Bentley are selling their first SUVs, hoping to claim a cut of sales that are through the (sun)roof. They're eager to bring something fresh to the format, too.
Look at the new Jaguar F-Pace, on sale now. It has a brawny, sporty presence both men and women can appreciate, kinda like Channing Tatum. Unlike with previous Jags, the cabin's tech is no longer from an alternate dimension where Steve Jobs was never born. The optional ten-inch InControl Touch Pro screen responds to taps instantaneously, not momentarily. There's an iPhone app you can use to heat the F-Pace in winter and a water-resistant, Fitbit-esque “key” band, so you can lock your key fob in the car at the beach. But let's be honest: It's all secondary to topping the neighbors.
These fuck-you SUVs are gas-guzzling, attention-getting, Bernie Sanders-enraging totems of wealth, and that may be their only real downside. It helps if you have kids or a cool dog (i.e., nothing ending in -doodle) to pile in. Not that you should let public judgment stop you from enjoying your money. But maybe park on the empty end of the lot, just to be safe.
The name is bad, the styling awkward. But it's all Bentley: bullet-train speed (600 horses!), acres of supple leather, and a suite of Floyd Mayweather-enticing options—like a $168,300 diamond-inlaid Breitling dash clock. The Bentayga is one helipad short of being a yacht.
This is family-of-four utility for people with Brioni taste. The Levante's twin-turbocharged V-6 engine makes up to 424 horsepower and sings a raspy aria. Plus, Maserati's sexpot style—heaving fenders, pouty face—clearly still looks great wearing a set of stilts.
